Lost It All
by How Clever of You
Summary: He dreamt, that night, that everything went wrong. / Major character death, spoilers for Blue on Blue and OWM, light Sam/Jules, and possible gore warning. Not quite sure how to rate or warn, so read at your own risk.


**This was, hands down, the most stressful episode of Flashpoint yet. Spike kidnapped, held hostage, and forced to hack into a building and screw with his team? I think I cried. A lot.**

**It's good to be back!**

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><p>He dreamt, that night, that everything went wrong.<p>

He was standing outside David's apartment again, staring at the graffitied door. It started to buzz and he yanked it open, slipping inside. He couldn't stop himself from walking up the path, right through the front door, and up the stairs.

It wasn't long before fake confusion turned to a realization that had been there all along and he was bound to a chair, hands cuffed. Natalie was safe, though, and that was all that mattered at the moment. Being there, in that room again, made it seem real – it was hard for him to acknowledge that he was dreaming. In fact, it was impossible, and the panic was starting to bubble up in his chest. With no team in reach to back him up, he was as useful as any other, unattached hostage.

He did everything David said, because he knew what would happen if he didn't. He kept his fingers against the keyboard, typing furiously, his brain sorting through his internal files in hopes of coming up with some escape route, some sort of plan that wouldn't involve getting shot in the head.

Finally, something started to form within in mind. Calling the SRU would not only give him the chance to save Natalie – and himself – but also possibly stop the break in. He instructed shots to be fired, promised David he'd mess with his own and get the men out. It was a far stretch, but he had faith. Then, as suddenly as it had gone into practice, it was over.

His team was gone. Was there a reason to go on? He had given up. Not only had the lives of those he had been fighting for been distinguished, but they took with them any hope of escaping. He asked David, in that same, half-dazed voice, why he had done it. "I did everything you asked me to."

David moved the gun from him to Natalie and tugged her back by her hair, gun cocked against her neck.

He had lost his voice. Instead of surrendering, promising to try again, to save her life, the words failed him, as they often do in dreams. But it didn't still seem like one – there was the same, over-sterile smell of a bleach-based cleaner and the plastic wrap from the new couches. He still felt fear, still felt scared and tired and sad and helpless.

He had no choice but to watch in horror as the gun jumped in David's hand. A loud bang resounded and she let out a mangled screech, muffled by the tape across her mouth.

The binding around his arms bit angrily into his skin when he leaned forward, as if moving his own body would prevent hers from sliding off the stool and slumping down against the counter. The blood was spreading quickly, staining her hair red; her eyes squeezed shut, tight, trying to block out the pain, before relaxing as the last little bit of life left her.

His vision fogged for a moment, everything but Natalie's prone body fading into the background. He might have been screaming, but his throat was already raw, so there was no way of knowing. He was dizzy and disoriented, trying to blink away tears that weren't really there. He felt claustrophobic, trapped by his own sick thoughts.

Natalie stayed in sharp view for several painful seconds. Then he was standing in the depot, Jules facedown at his feet. She smelled like singed hair and burning flesh, and he braced himself as the bile rose in his throat. The rest of her body – waist down – was caught underneath a large, metal shelf. He couldn't look for long; it was too terrible, too sad, too late.

A movement from under another pile of wreckage caught his attention. He was half-glad for a distraction, but seeing Sam crawling toward him, coughing, proved to be no consolation. He was leaving a trail of blood like the ooze of a slug as he made his slow, sorry progress, and Spike knew he wasn't whole, not anymore. He adverted his eyes, just listening to his labored breaths as he dragged himself, sliding through splintered wood and, possibly, over a part of Raf. It didn't even occur to him to reach out and help; it was a fact in his mind that Sam could not see him. He was just watching, helpless, a mere spectator.

Greg was shouting over Jules' lost com, panicking. Four officers down, one unaccounted for – all of the sanity, the base of the team. It was all him, now, flying solo. He couldn't take down the two men who had stolen the evidence, let alone any backup they had stationed outside. He was lost and alone, waiting for something that wasn't about to happen, clinging to that last sliver of golden hope that someone, anyone, was still breathing.

Sam ignored him. His energy was running low and it was clear he was dying. His face was burned, red from the blistering rawness and exhaustion most certainly from lack of oxygen. His airway was damaged; without immediate medical help, he wouldn't make it. He didn't look like he was expecting to, either.

He got stuck on something that Spike didn't want to identify. Sam pushed himself forward, though, using his last bit of energy, willpower, to grab a hold on Jules' hand. He panted for a moment more, his breath scattering the dust across the concrete floor, before falling silent completely, fingers still grasping his partner's.

Spike wanted to move the shelves, help get the blood flowing again in her legs. He thought back to Rania at the bombed office, stuck for hours. The only reason she survived was because of that IV, because of Tony, of Sam. Jules had no hope.

He couldn't tell what color her skin was; her face was black with soot, spotted with blood from a nasty gash on her head. The blast, most certainly the cause of that wound, had probably been what had taken her life.

He couldn't see Raf. Not all of him, at least. A few feet away, Ed's vest was burned away, leaving a sickening gouge exposed. Neither of the men were moving.

Spike closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth, gathering all of his will not to get sick. The smell of blood – so much of – was heavy in the air, its thin fingers pressing against him from every direction, making the claustrophobia almost unbearable.

When he had the courage to look around again, he was standing next to Greg, who was repeating those numbers, over and over. He had figured it out. 3496. He blamed him. Spike had led his team on a wild goose chase in an effort to save Natalie, to save himself. It was out of selfishness, jerking the chain of the team. But he had never dreamed David's men would plant C4. How could he?

He was supposed to see every which way the call could go. The subject could pull a gun on his friend, the officer, himself. He was trained to expect, to see the signs. So why hadn't he been able to prevent this? Why hadn't he been able to talk David down, convince him not to give them the okay?

Why had he even gone to pick her up in the first place?

Even now, when all was said and done, he couldn't believe he had lost everything. He was second-guessing himself, going over and over his actions in excruciating detail, repeating the mantra, the lie, over and over and over. _It's my fault. They're all dead because of me._

Greg was trying to keep it all together, but the hyperventilation had started. He was leading a team who couldn't hear him, couldn't give a resounding "all good," couldn't even take a breath. He had been talking to Eddie just a second before; Spike couldn't help but think of Lew. "_It's gonna be okay."_ Did his leader have a chance to say goodbye?

Then he was back in David's apartment. Spike wanted him to fire his arm, wanted so bad to feel that bullet in his brain. David seemed to sense this, though; he smiled maliciously and tucked it into his belt. His shoes were dripping red, soaking in the puddle that was growing next to Natalie.

"You get to live with it," he said. "You get to live with the blood of the five people on your hands."

"I didn't kill them," he responded numbly. "You did."

The two men laughed. "And how exactly are you going to prove that, Officer Scarlatti? The evidence is everywhere. Your fingerprints…" He stepped forward, leaving bloody footprints on the floor, and thrust the gun into Spike's hand. He wiped the other half off with a cloth. "You may have been handcuffed, but it was just to throw me off the trail. Albin may have been talking, but you were the one calling the shots, now, weren't you?"

"What?" Albin said, and Spike whispered, "No."

"And Natalie, well, she tried to attack you. Things went haywire. But her brother was the one you were targeting, wasn't he? He wouldn't give you permission to date his sister."

"It's not like that," he tried.

David ignored him. "The whole team responded to that call, though – whoops. He was the only one supposed to be in that room. My – excuse me, your – men were going to lure him in there, get him alone, then set off the C4. Just enough to kill one. But the SRU doesn't work like that, do they? Just more bodies to add to your card."

"Nobody's going to believe you," he tried, but David shushed him, feigning kindness.

"I know it hurts. But I'm the only living witness. Don't you know how that's going to affect my mental health? A poor victim of a post-prison attack." He grimaced, but there was laughter behind his eyes. Then he turned to Albin. "Sorry it had to end this way, my friend."

He pulled the trigger through the cloth.

Spike jerked awake, scrambling up in his bed, gripping the sheets. He was shaking uncontrollably, still nauseous. He tried to reassure himself that it was just a dream, just a nightmare. But he could still feel that blood splattering across his face, taste the copper in his mouth. Closing his eyes meant seeing the lifeless bodies of his team, all at his hands.

But it hadn't gone that way. They were all alive, every single one that had started out at work that morning. Nobody had died, not because of him. Everyone would come into work the next morning, smiling, offering him their complete forgiveness.

Whether or not he felt he deserved their trust, it was something that he could hold onto.


End file.
